


same old town

by jugandbettsdetectiveagency



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant - until 1x13, F/M, Future Fic, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, and the cyclical nature of history, because I cant stop writing about Jughead’s relationship to his father
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 18:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18922555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugandbettsdetectiveagency/pseuds/jugandbettsdetectiveagency
Summary: Living in this apartment together, getting their respective degrees, working their part time jobs—it all felt wonderfully normal. The longer it went on, the easier Jughead found it to forget that there was ever a before to this; he hadn’t set foot in Riverdale since the day they packed up the old blue Ford and drove to the city.Now he’s agreed to go back.





	same old town

**Author's Note:**

> I think this might be four or five chapters but I’m not committing because I don’t trust myself 
> 
> title from old man by neil young

_Old man take a look at my life,_

_I’m a lot like you._

 

 

**After**

 

The sound of tires crunching gravel beneath their tread is loud and imposing as they roll to a stop. The slam of of an aging truck door cuts through the Sunday morning silence, followed by heavy-booted footsteps making their way up neatly lain paving stones. Knuckles rap on shiny, red wood, neither peeling nor crackled—the doorbell is only a couple of inches to the left, but it’s not in the knocker’s habit to have one available so he bypasses it simply for familiarity. Besides, it’s still too quiet.

 

The knocks go unanswered, as do the next set, and the next. With a muted sigh FP tries the handle of one-eleven, Elm Street, finding it to give way easily under his hand. He makes sure to kick his boots thoroughly against the pristine welcome mat before stepping over the threshold and standing just inside.

 

(It’s something that he’s only done a few times before, and it still feels like it should be forbidden, like _he’s_ forbidden. And he supposes he is. He guesses his presence here right now comes with a sense of foreboding. But, like always, he might be a little too late.)

 

“Jug?” His voice is thick, gruff with disuse as he calls out, listening intently for any sign of life within the bowels of the house.

 

It’s barely audible, but there’s a muffled scratching sound, like fabric on fabric, coming from the living room and he follows it tentatively. He can only see the back of Jughead’s head from his point beneath the entryway, but it’s lolling with something all too familiar, and FP closes his eyes with a disappointed sigh.

 

“Jug? You in there?” he asks, coming round the side of the couch, ducking his head to try and meet his son’s glazed eyes. They roll blearily in their attempts to meet his father’s, blinking and bloodshot.

 

“’m here,” he mumbles, sounding anything but as his chest lifts in a hiccup.

 

“Jesus, boy. How long have you been drinking?” FP admonishes, taking in the few bottles littered across the coffee table. Jughead follows his gaze, a look of childlike shock edging its way into his slack features.

 

At his lack of response, FP continues. “You haven’t got very far with this,” indicating the almost empty box meant for packing up Jughead’s belongings. “How long’d she give you?”

 

Jughead attempts a shrug but his shoulders seem too heavy, weighted in a way FP remembers seeing them once before—maybe worse—in a way he wished he’d never have to see again. “Just said to go,” he whispers after a long moment. FP feels burning moisture prick at the corners of his eyes and runs a calloused hand over his face quickly.

 

“Alright.” He pauses, his heart giving a sickening thud, because it is anything but. He sucks in a deep breath and tries again. “Alright, let’s get on with it.”

 

Jughead isn’t much use, so FP fetches him a mug of coffee from the pot that’s still mostly full on the kitchen counter, shoving it into his son’s hands in a way that’s both exasperated and careful. He makes his way upstairs, not markedly ignoring the pictures lining the walls but not looking at them either. Still, he can feel the eerie weight of the Cooper smile on his profile—again, and again, and again—before he reaches the top.

 

He gets the right door on the first try, senses overwhelmed by pink floral patterns and soft flowery scents as soon as he steps inside. There’s something else lingering beneath the initial, patented femininity of Betty’s childhood bedroom. It’s something he’s familiar with, something that smells like collapsing on the worn out springs of an aged sofa while careful hands untie your laces and remove your boots. It’s something that reminds him of the clack of fingers on keys, the rustle of a pastry bag, and the taste of warm dough—it’s something _Jughead_. But it’s faint and faded, just barely clinging to the fabric of the pillowcases, the gauze of the curtains, the pile of the carpet. It’s overwhelmed by everything else around it.

 

FP makes his way over to the dresser, touching as little as possible on the way (it’s only the more sensible side of himself that reminds him he _has_ to touch the floor with his feet or he’d be avoiding that too, somehow). He grabs the first things he can lay his hands on—a swath of greys and navys and plaid—piling them on the table of his forearm to bring back to the box and load into the truck.

 

“Up you get,” he grunts a saddeningly short time later, when all the things that stood out had been dropped in the box and taken outside, hooking his hands under Jughead’s arms. He’s a heavy weight against FP’s body, reluctant and tired as he’s moved like a child by his father—drunk on sunshine and summer air, legs exhausted from running, skin flushed from the rays, sated and content in slumber as he’s carried home without a care for how he gets there.

 

The street is waking up as Jughead trips over his own feet, falling down the steps that lead from the Cooper house, propping himself up with FP’s shoulder unrestrainedly. Invisible eyes watch him walk his path of persecution from behind thick curtains. It’s his cross to bear and he’s already had too much help carrying it.

 

When FP was a kid, before he was old enough to realise _why_ his own father never stayed for long when he dropped him off at his grandparents’ house, his grandfather used to show him the fruits of his labour. There was always a rasp in his voice from the acidic wash of one too many drinks, and a misplaced authority to his tone that always fell flat because of the quiver in his words, but FP listened with rapt attention anyway.

 

The dresser in the dining room was full of glass ornaments and vases and trinkets, all blown and shaped by his pop’s hands. His breath had ballooned the molten mixture, twisting and cooling until it was something beautiful.

 

_“You don’t touch ‘em, Forsythe, y’hear? They’re special, I’m proud of ‘em, and you could break ‘em quick as that.” He’d snapped his fingers._

 

He hadn’t listened, and his ear still smarts at the memory of fingers clipping it, a shattered jug at his feet. Perhaps that was the thing that started it all, FP muses as he clicks the seatbelt into place around Jughead, his knack for breaking everything precious—everything he touched.

 

When a toddling Jughead had got one of those jugs stuck on his head FP hadn’t been mad; he’d laughed and named him after it. His regard for things with sentimental value must have been shaky from the get go.

 

The engine whining to life cuts through the Sunday silence once more. FP squints against the morning sun glinting through the windshield as he takes the turn that will lead them towards the Southside. Jughead’s head bumps lightly against the window as they travel the grit roads, his breaths uneven but soft, and FP hopes that maybe this could be the first shattered glass he fixes.

 

* * *

 

 

**Before**

 

The news comes on a Wednesday afternoon in April that seemed innocuous as any.

 

Alice Cooper needs gallbladder surgery, imminently, and she wants someone to come and take care of the Register during her recovery.

 

“She knows we’re graduating early and that I won’t have any commitments until the summer... But you don’t have to come. I can see that you don’t want to come,” Betty sighs, hands on his chest, tilting her head in that knowing way of hers that reminds Jughead he could never get away with a single lie. They’ve spent careful years crafting the open trust between them, building it past the point where a simple disagreement could crumble the foundations.

 

“No, it’s not that I don’t want to go with you.” He squeezes her hip gently before lowering his hands to his sides. Betty purses her lips, knowing that there’s more to come, but she doesn’t say anything, allowing Jughead the time he needs to get the words right before he speaks.

 

Words, so important to him, let alone finding the right strings that do exactly what he needs them to. Over time Betty’s learnt to give him the extra seconds he needs to set them straight, and Jughead’s learnt to take them. “It’s just… going _back_ ,” he swallows thickly around the word. “After all this time we’ve spent moving forwards, it just feels,” he breaks off, pulling a hand through his hair. “Counterintuitive.”

 

It’s only been five years but with the way their lives have turned for the better, leaving Riverdale seems like a lifetime ago.

 

Betty slips her arms around his neck. “I get that, and that’s why I’m totally okay with going alone. It’s not like it’s forever. Several weeks, maximum. I know we were going to start travelling right away before we’re tied down to full-time work but with the divorce proceedings on top of this I just—” Jughead can hear the guilt creeping into her voice, and he silences her quickly with a hand to her hip.

 

“Betty, you don’t have to justify going home to take care of your family to me. And since I consider you to be my entire family there’s no doubt I’m gonna come with you. Any length of time is too long to be away from you if I don’t have to be. Hey,” he teases, pulling her in even closer with the hand on her waist. “I might even use the time to work on the final edits of my novel. Start looking for agents again.”

 

She tilts her chin upwards, a wordless signal he’s been familiar with since he was a teenager—she wants him to kiss her. Jughead leans in slowly, savouring the way her eyelashes flicker and her mouth seeks his before he presses his lips to hers.

 

“I love you.” He never tires of hearing it. “And… if you want to,” she hesitates, drawing her lower lip between her teeth with uncertainty. “If we’re there… I’d come with you to go and visit—”

 

“No, Betty.” It comes out quickly, the edges a little harsher than he meant them to be. Jughead touches her cheek with a cupped palm, using his thumb to run along the reddened skin of her lips, soothe it. “I don’t need to see him. I’d rather just come to support you and your mom and forget about the rest.”

 

A protest is brewing in her bright, green eyes but to his relief Betty doesn’t voice it. He’s not sure he can go to that place right now. Not when he’s only just agreed to go back.

 

Living in this apartment together, getting their respective degrees, working their part time jobs—it all felt wonderfully normal. The longer it went on, the easier Jughead found it to forget that there was ever a _before_ to this; he hadn’t set foot in Riverdale since the day they packed up the old blue Ford and drove to the city.

 

Riverdale could be a dream of a town. Not idyllic, or perfect, or somewhere to aspire to live—not in that sense. But somewhere hazy, and distant, and foggy around the edges. It ran away from you if you chased it: the white picket fence on the right side of town, the good job with good healthcare, the two-point-five kids and the summer wedding. And the faster you chased the further it got.

 

Jughead had woken up one day and realised the memory of his dream was fading, and if he didn’t stop pouring all his focus into getting it back he was going to lose what was real. So they left.

 

Between his father’s imprisonment for aiding in the murder of Jason Blossom, and his mom and sister MIA up in Toledo, there was nothing left in the town that Jughead once put so much stock in for his happiness. Growing up, all he’d ever wanted, fought for, was a home. A setup that ticked all the boxes, met all the criteria that was force fed to him before he even realised he was eating. He was starving and sick to his stomach, hollow and nauseous all at once.

 

All it took was a girl with sad eyes and a hopeful heart, one morning in a pink bedroom, to get him to realise that home didn’t have to be what you expected it to.

 

Everything seemed clearer after that. Not without its flaws and specks—but the lenses with which Jughead now viewed his dealt hand suddenly had the barest tint of rose. How could he not when he’d seen the way Betty Cooper had smiled so softly after he’d kissed her for the first time.

 

Being with Betty made him want to forget the cookie cutter dreams he’d been spooned for so long and finally, _finally_ , deign to have his own. Actually applying to college was the first step, believing he could be more than a trailer park kid with no parents and other people’s debts. The road wasn’t smooth to say the least, but for the first time he wanted to travel it by her side.

 

“Okay,” Betty finally says after a moment of searching his eyes. He knows her well enough to see that she’s still unsure about it, about whether she should push him further, but she doesn’t voice her concerns so neither does he. “If that’s what you want then okay.” It’s not said facetiously—Betty is the most genuine person he’s ever met—but Jughead still works to push down the sudden curdling of guilt in his gut.

 

“Great,” he swallows. “And maybe while we’re there we could plan that trip to Edinburgh we’ve always wanted to take.”

 

Betty kisses him again, once, twice, inhaling deeply as she leans further into his chest. “Sounds perfect.”

 

Jughead smiles, his fingers tingling against the friction her denim jeans cause as she slips out of his hold.

.

.

.

“Hey, man. What’s up?”

 

“Nothing much.”

 

Archie snorts, and Jughead resists the urge to take the phone away from his ear to give it an affronted look. “Dude, you are not a caller unless something is bothering you. So come on, out with it.”

 

He’s right, and Jughead might have foreseen Archie’s ability to see through him, even from the other side of the country, if he wasn’t so wrapped up about something currently.

 

He sucks in a breath. “Betty needs us to head back to Riverdale for a few weeks.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Yeah, thanks.”

 

“No, I just mean— well, shit.” Jughead laughs. Archie’s brand has never exactly been giving the best advice, but his best friend is well-meaning and an ever-available ear, and usually amusing enough to get him out of his own head. “Is everything okay?”

 

“Betty’s mom is having surgery—nothing serious,” he hastens to add, “Gallbladder. But she’s gonna be out of action for a few weeks and with Mr Cooper gone she asked Betty to take care of the Register while she recovers.”

 

“You know you could always say no. To going with her, I mean. Betty would totally understand why.”

 

Jughead clears his throat. “Yeah, I know. She said as much.”

 

“So…?” He continues before Jughead can answer. “You and Betty are two of the most independent people I know. It’s not like you couldn’t handle a months separation.”

 

“It’s not that.” He’d told her it was that, of course he had.

 

“Then what?”

 

Truthfully, Jughead hadn’t wanted to give it any thought.

 

This whole thing began with his inclinations towards a morbid curiosity—with the need to solve the murder of Jason Blossom, with the desire to unearth the seedy underbelly of a town. If it weren’t for that specific chain of events Jughead has no idea where he’d be at this moment in time. Except he knows with almost completely certainty it wouldn’t be here. _Something_ had spurred him to climb that ladder to Betty’s window and kiss her. Perhaps it was the hopeless desperation of their situation in that moment, an end of the line, caution to the wind confidence that only Betty has managed to summon in him since. Whatever it was, he was grateful.

 

It’s that same feeling that’s stopping him from telling Betty he’ll see her when she gets back.

 

“Look,” Archie begins, alerting him to the fact he’s been silent too long. “You always overthink things and then you still manage to jump to the worst conclusions. I’m not saying being cautious is a bad thing but I just know you tend to make things way worse in your head than they actually are. And do you think maybe going back home feels so big because you’ve spent all this time thinking instead of actually _doing_?”

 

Archie liked to launch himself into things headfirst. It had been that way as long as they’d known each other—their whole lives. When Jughead considered the weight of his dad’s anger against the fun of jumping in the muddy puddle, Archie was already knees deep, face smeared, smile wide. Jughead had been pretty jealous of the ways in which his friend could turn ‘irresponsible’ into happy-go-lucky and wear it so well. Sure, it may have got him into trouble when he tried to take two girls to the same prom so as not to hurt their feelings, but even then he’d just ended up with _another_ girl on his arm by the end of the night, all things forgiven.

 

But, like most things, balance is best, and where Archie was outgoing and careless, Jughead was subdued and careful. They brought out the best in one another. Which is why Archie is usually his first stop for advice, even if his personal decisions were sometimes questionable.

 

Jughead sighs. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I just find it hard to get out of the constant spiral.”

 

“Think of Betty.” He says it so simply. “Whenever you’re nervous I always try and make you talk about good times you’ve had with Betty. Works like a charm.” If Jughead thought he were capable, he’d think his friend sounded a bit smug right now.

 

He furrows his brow, frown lines framing his eyes and mouth. He’d never noticed that Archie did that before. He tries it now, picturing his favourite memory from his teenage years that didn’t involve leaving.

 

The sensory memories come easily enough, like it only just happened. The air is crisp and just edging on the side of too cold. Leaves crunch beneath the ladder as he sets it in the grass and shifts his weight from foot to foot before taking the leap and climbing up the side of the Cooper house. His palms are sweaty and her room is too pink, and her lip gloss taste like chalky raspberries. Her breath is cool as it fans across his face and stokes the fire roaring in his stomach at the appearance of a peaceful smile at the corner of her lips.

 

That’s the Riverdale he loves.

 

“Thanks, Arch.”

 

* * *

 

 

Spring is coming slowly this year, and a swift wind with an icy edge sweeps into their apartment as Betty lifts the window to the fire escape. The whisper of her footsteps across the carpet as she gathers up her coffee and a blanket from the back of the couch get lost in the cacophony of noise from the street outside, blaring horns and the rush of tires across rain-soaked roads.

 

It’s become a morning ritual for Betty to sit out on the metal steps at daybreak since they’ve been living here. Jughead can be a fitful sleeper at times—

 

(She’d asked him about it, once. For the fifth night in a row not long after they’d moved in together, Betty had woken to the distressed rustle of sheets on sheets, and exasperated thuds, Jughead flipping over and over on his side of the bed.

 

Touching his elbow startled him, a sheepish look on his face as he told her to go back to sleep. He’d go and watch TV on the couch for a while. Betty had pushed his hair away from his forehead and asked if there was anything she could do to help him sleep better.

 

Jughead needed coaxing but eventually told her he still hadn’t broken the habits of a light sleeper. Always waiting for his dad to bang through the trailer door, his boss to catch him in his cot at the drive-in, the janitor to find him in the closet at school. Their bed was too big, too different, and he kept waking from dreams where he was falling, falling, falling.

 

Betty bit her lip against a quiver and drew him close, tangling their legs and resting his head on her chest. Her fingers combed through his hair until his breath evened and her heart rate slowed, pink and orange splitting the sky.)

 

—but he seems to fall into a deeper sleep in the early hours. Having always been an early riser thanks to her mother’s incessant efforts, Betty finds it a peaceful way to start the day, waking up slowly with the rest of the city at her feet.

 

A woman pushes a stroller—one of those fancy jogging strollers that costs the Earth—wrapped in thermal gym wear.

 

Going home hadn’t been on her list of things to do in the near future. Betty knows Jughead thinks it’s his fault, that he’s keeping her away but, in truth, she’s really okay with only looking forwards, not back.

 

Their last few years in Riverdale could be, politely, described as sticky. Things came so close to breaking that the idea of putting themselves back in the place where it all came crashing down constricts her chest. Betty takes in a lungful or crisp, morning air, full of the smog of New York and can’t stop herself from reliving a moment just as cold as this one.

 

The frigid night air smelled like firewood and spices as it poured in through the cracks in the trailer. It cooled the sweat on her skin until she started shivering, straining her ears to listen over the chatter of her own teeth.

  
The jubilee had already become a distant memory, much like the shy smile Jughead had sent her way under the soft neon of Pop’s lights when she’s asked if they could go home.  
  
The spot on the back of her head was still throbbing from where it had connected with the cabinet handle when Jughead left to open the trailer door. It only intensified with the bark of a dog and a call to arms. The swoop in Betty’s stomach flipped from nervous anticipation to fearful dread, fanned by the movement of heavy leather settling across a small boy’s shoulders.  
  
“Juggie?” The feeling burst into flames, his startled gaze connecting with hers—flint against steel, sparking and smoking, drowning out everything with the sharp crackle of burning endearments and kindling promises.  
  
Betty couldn’t hear what Jughead murmured to his visitors next over the dull roar now filling her ears. She chose a dark stain on the trailer’s carpet to fix her eyes upon, holding steady while he came back inside, closed the door, and cupped his cold hands against her cheeks; she decided the stain looked a little like Texas.  
  
“Betty, look at me,” he pleaded, lips barely parting to voice his request. Her eyelids felt heavy as she lifted them to meet his worried gaze, the room out of focus and beginning to lilt.  
  
She could already see it, lurking just beneath his concern, peeking out behind his worry—there was guilt hiding in his features. It was only then that she noticed he’d taken the jacket back off. Her eyes swung about the room, finding the dark heap of leather and thread bundled over the arm of the couch. Betty’s fingers reached out of their own accord and began twisting the light grey cotton-wool blend of Jughead’s sweater, feeling fabric where just moments ago there was an expanse of smooth skin.  
  
“What was that?” It only made sense for her to ask the most weighted question first. There were too many related queries, complicated and lengthy and already muddled inside her addled mind, that this was the only place she could bring herself to start. “What did that mean?”  
  
Jughead swallowed, her eyes, level with his Adam’s apple, following the movement closely. “It... it was an olive branch, I guess,” Jughead sighed, running his thumb over her paling cheek.  
  
When he didn’t make an effort to continue, Betty sent him a withering look. He lifted one hand from her face to run distractedly through his uncovered hair, beanie still discarded on the couch, the other falling to her shoulder. “They wanted to let me know that I’ll have people looking out for me now that my dad’s been arrested, and will probably face significant jail time.” Betty didn’t miss the way his voice tightened around the words, finally spoken with a degree of certainty. She knew he’d feel responsible, for putting the suggestion out into the universe, but it was getting harder to deny the fact of the matter—FP was going away, and no one knew how long for. “And maybe… this is the start of something new, for Riverdale, like you said. This could mean we can make things better.”

  
Betty wanted to draw him closer, pull him into her embrace and whisper soothing words into the crook of his neck. She wanted to take them both back to mere minutes ago, to the feeling of getting lost in each others’ touch, high on confessions of love and the taste of another’s tongue. She wanted to believe in his belief, more than anything. The heavy weight of her own words was pressing on her chest, the painful prick of hypocrisy needling its way to the surface as the image of Jughead in that jacket refused to fade.

  
“It looked like a recruitment to me,” she confessed shakily, fighting the urge to pull at a loose thread at his hem.  
  
Jughead huffed out a frustrated exhale, dropping his hands from her completely—Betty felt the loss all the way down to the soles of her feet. “Betty,” he broke off, turning his body away from her slightly. He was about to lie. Or, at the very least, say something he didn’t know to be true. “It’s nothing. The jacket, that’s just how they work. People like the Serpents run on a sense of loyalty and cohesive identity; it’s drilled into them from the start. Offering that to me... It’s just their way of acknowledging they’ve done their duty. Box ticked, requirements fulfilled. It’s more to honour my dad, if anything. They’re not trying to... indoctrinate me, or something,” Jughead explained with a cavalier roll of his eyes, but still sneaking glances at her face throughout.  
  
“Aren’t they?” Betty worried, her voice finding some of its usual Cooper strength. The thought of the Serpents praying on Jughead’s vulnerabilities was turning her blood to a low simmer, drawing anger to the forefront of her mass of swirling emotions. “They’re offering you everything you’re going to need help getting now that your dad’s indisposed, and all they’re asking in return is that you take a jacket that affiliates you with their gang? Which, despite its merits, isn’t always on the right side of the law. It seems suspicious, Jug.”  
  
“Indisposed?” Jughead scoffed, face hardening. The calm that had shrouded the rest of their night was fading fast. “You can say incarcerated, Betty, it’s not a dirty word.” Jughead pulled his lower lip roughly between his teeth, biting down on the skin as he shook his head slightly. “It’s nice to know how you really feel about the scourge of Riverdale,” he bit out with a venom that seemed like it surprised even himself.  
  
Betty blanched, taking a step towards him despite her instinct to step back. “You know I don’t think that,” she said evenly, her octave lowering to a murmur. Jughead softened as he stared back at her unwavering eyes, some of the fight leaving his own.  
  
“I know, I’m sorry,” he apologised, tilting his head towards the floor. Her sigh washed across his face.  
  
“I’m just worried about you,” she whispered, mirroring his earlier position, taking his face between her palms. He looked up at her from beneath his lashes, lips parting at the sincerity in the forestial depths of her eyes. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”  
  
“I won’t,” he promised earnestly, placing his hands over hers, willing her to believe his half-truth as much as he was willing himself. “It’s not what you think. Things will get better from here,” Jughead whispered, resting his forehead against hers.  
  
“Yeah?” Betty asked unsure, but unable to keep the creeping edge of hope out of her tone. All at once she felt impossibly tired. Tired of fighting, tired of worrying, tired of keeping everything straight. They’d been through a lot in the past few days, let alone months since Jason’s death, and the feeling of Jughead’s skin against hers was pulling her towards an enticing slumber.  
  
One where boys weren’t found in rivers, where dads weren’t found guilty of murder. One where teenagers didn’t sleep under the stairwell, and gangs didn’t knock on your boyfriend’s door in the early hours of the night to offer him solace. Right now, the only thing she had energy left for was hope.  
  
“Yeah,” Jughead whispered back, leaning in until the word brushed against her lips. Betty pushed forwards gently, sealing their lips together in a kiss much sweeter than anything they’d shared that evening.  
  
She felt his hands drift down her sides, tickling with the lightest of pressures, until he reached the untucked hem of her shirt. He ran his warmed fingers beneath, tracing the skin of her waist but making no move to remove the layer once more.  
  
“How about we watch a movie?” he suggested quietly, eyes glimmering with a childlike hopefulness that had her pressing another kiss to his relaxed mouth. He smiled against her lips when she nodded, taking her hand and leading her down the hall.  


“Betty?”

 

Jughead’s voice, rough from sleep, startles her out of her reminiscence. “Hey, why are you awake so early?” She holds out the edge of the blanket so he can slide beneath. His hand finds her waist, his lips settling in the crook of her neck, speaking into her skin.

 

She already knows what’s coming when he says, “Couldn’t sleep,” already knows why. “It’s freezing out here.”

 

He’s adorably rumpled with sleep, hair sticking up every which way, eyes struggling not to water through a yawn. Betty shuffles closer, sharing her warmth. His cold fingers slip beneath her hem and she suppresses a shiver.

 

“We should probably make sure everything’s packed up by the end of today so we can head out early tomorrow. Is there gas in the truck?” They still owned the blue Ford they stowed away in after graduation, but they didn’t have much cause to drive it so it sat in the garage under their building.

 

“I’ll check later.”

 

Later. It seemed like a reoccurring theme when it came to Jughead and Riverdale. They’d talk about his dad, later. They’d discuss going to her mom’s for Thanksgiving, later. Perhaps they could decide when it was the right time to go back and finally put the past to rest. Later.

 

She understood—how could she not? Their youth was not kind to Jughead, and when you’re young the boundaries of your hometown seem like the entire lengths of the Earth. But it didn’t mean that his unwillingness to even to talk to her about it, about the things that still troubled him, still kept him from falling into an easy sleep at night, didn’t frustrate her.

 

If she pushed like she knew she was capable of doing, Betty knows how it’d end. There’s memories of a birthday party, her rendition of the song still haunting her if she listens hard enough. There’s a night in a trailer, trapped in a bubble of rainfall, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

There’s the flick of a switchblade and the wail of a siren, blurred vision, flashing lights, a look of panic that makes the face wearing it look so painfully young.

 

Betty shakes her head. Those nights are long gone, a different life, different people living it.

 

“Thank you,” is all she says, pressing a kiss to the line of his jaw and settling back down to watch the sun rise.

**Author's Note:**

> a comment is always appreciated if you enjoyed


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